


Morbid Celebration

by thasmins



Category: Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Angst, Blood, F/F, One-Shots, Smut, Whump
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-11-25
Updated: 2018-11-29
Packaged: 2019-08-29 08:04:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,095
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16740217
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thasmins/pseuds/thasmins
Summary: collection of thasmin whump (because i can't torture my otp enough)!





	1. choking

**Author's Note:**

> i legit cannot go through a day without torturing these two so i made this???? i'm not sorry okay
> 
> ~~you don't rlly ship them unless you've thought of ways to absolutely destroy them~~

The cell is absent of light save for a flickering oil lamp in the far right corner. 

Icy air bites battered skin, blows cold whispers against sensitive ears. Dripping water echoes, accompanied by laboured breathing. Chains linked to cuffed limbs jangle to slight movements, as if laughing wickedly at its dreary prisoner.

Ghosts of the cell’s previous victims cry out for her. Mourning already for a death waiting to come. Its kiss yet to take her lips. 

Her face is frozen in an emotionless glare. No more screams. Cries of help stop. Only bruised, paling parted lips drawing the bitter air in and out. 

Inside, there is still a part of that yearns for an escape. It is overshadowed by the statistical knowledge of survival plaguing her mind.

Tired eyes glance forward. The faint, blurred image of a dark figure stares back behind the small pane of the door. She wishes it were Death—coming back to welcome its latest victim.

The ghosts wail again. All around her, swirling in shared agony, a cacophony of misery. 

When the door creaks open, the sound that vibrates sends the ghosts into a panicked frenzy, disappearing in a second’s notice.

Footsteps follow, each of its clicks separated by seemingly prolonged periods of silence. This is Death’s bringer—a servant unknowingly granting its wishes. 

When they’re face-to-face, she sees a black cloak shrouding her captor’s identity. Would it matter who they are would be the question she’s ready to answer.

A hand reaches for the hood, and it slips. The flickering oil lamp illuminates their face. 

Answer: it matters.

Her lips twitch in a small gasp. The chains clank again. 

It’s enough to earn the satisfaction of an odious cackle twisting the face she once trusted the most.

The face she still trusts.

She knows it isn’t truly them; the hazel pupils of her captor are rimmed in a green glow. In truth, they are both victims in this cell. She can’t blame them for what’s to come.

A hand encloses around her bruised neck. 

Choking, that’s how she goes. The amount of anger one must go through for such a personal way of killing. To feel the essence of the victim slipping away. To watch as the body tries to fend for themselves.

She stares at those hazel eyes. They’re watching her small ragged breaths, stuttered groans, and she feels sorry that this memory will stick in their mind for a prolonged future. 

Lungs ache for breath. Her own eyes well up pricks of tears. Her wrists fight the strength of the chains.

The hand only tightens, squeezes more, sucking out all of the life in her.

Then, in one sudden moment—

A blade plunges into flesh, warm and robust. It twists, tearing more and oozing out the sticky, sticky blood into her ruined jumper.

“Just for decoration,” they say, wearing the Doctor’s ruined face in a devilish smirk.

Death is coming by for her. She can feel its presence lingering in the cell. It’s like it pities her, like it’s telling her that  _ she doesn’t deserve this _ .

She doesn’t…

…but at least she gets to look at the Doctor one last time.


	2. please

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> PWP, sorta. I hope you guys remember Saibra—she's from Time Heist, one of my fave 12th Doctor stories!
> 
> ~~i managed to make smutty whump fic,,, I'M SO POWERFUL~~

The thick rope winds around the Doctor’s wrists and twists itself into a perplexing knot. It binds tighter with the struggling, chafing the skin, reddening severely. 

Houdini took her under his wing, but his teachings didn’t have to apply with consented bondage.

“Enjoying yourself?”

Facing her, Saibra checks the rope, ensuring the security of its hold. Her hand ghosts on the Doctor’s palm, a gasp escaping her parted lips.

Last time they saw each other, they were robbing the Bank of Karabraxos. The Doctor had wiped their memories of the few hours clean and masked herself as the Architect—the person who instructed them to perform the time heist along with an augmented human and a close friend from the past.

The Doctor nods to her question.

Saibra’s brows furrow. “Is this what you really want? Are you truly sure of yourself about this, Doctor?”

“Yes.” 

The Doctor answers quickly; mostly due to her pale body’s lack of clothing, for she stands uncomfortably against the cold metal wall and floor. It bites into her skin, bitter and icy. The cruel touch of the cold.

“Please,” she begs in a whisper, “please,  _ fuck  _ me.”

It’s so desperate. So pathetic. So miserable. The sadness—it’s an emotion poisoning her, killing her slowly, internally. 

Saibra unravels the silk robe, and it falls with grace. The revealed black lace lingerie does its purpose perfectly; covering the  _ best  _ features of her body in a rude manner.

Picking the robe up, she searches for something with her hand, her eyes refusing to look away from the dismal Time Lord. When she feels the hard surface of plastic, she sighs—almost in relief.

“Last chance to back down,” she warns.

“And I answered already:  _ fuck me.  _ As hard as you can, I prefer.”

The vulgar request is enough for Saibra to register a sudden warmth in her centre.

She grabs the small, thick strip of plastic off the robe’s pocket. A DNA container and its content—a single lock of hair.

The Doctor watches as Saibra’s body reconfigures, morphs into familiar topography, beautiful tawny brown curves, and the distinct face that she could recognise miles away. The memory all comes back, and it  _ hurts. _ She could only express such emotions in a choked back sob.

“Doctor.” The sound of Saibra’s voice—it’s a blow to her stomach. 

“Yaz.” Her own voice shakes at the name. “ _ Please. _ ”

The perfect imitation of her past—she leans in and kisses hard, capturing the Doctor’s quivering lips completely. Doubt that remained in these two flushes away from their system in a moment’s notice. 

Their bodies pressing against each other, the Doctor groans in between their kisses. The thin lingerie brushing on her pebbled nipples is pleasuring, building up the heat in her core.

Oh, how she misses Yasmin Khan. It’s a truly miserable tale. They both denied their feelings until it was too late. Until the bullet pierced through the human’s abdomen. Until the blood pooled and soaked her trousers. Until the wrong words were said.

_ I’m sorry, Doctor. _

But she forgets that all of that happens—forgets it all for now. Because right now, for all she knows, Yaz has her, in naked glory, tied in rope, trapped against her lingerie-clad body, her rouge lips stealing away her breath. 

When Yaz’s fingers slip into the Doctor’s folds, she lets herself believe that it’s actually  _ her. _


End file.
